


Raining on Sunday

by withoutaplease



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 18:00:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6386623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutaplease/pseuds/withoutaplease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a rough night (in more ways than one), Sam and reader pass some time on a rainy morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raining on Sunday

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the SPN Sutra challenge.

               Strange-bed disorientation barely fazes you anymore, but still, you’re confused by the world you wake up to. This room, this air, seems different from what you remember.  It’s a vast improvement.

               Last night, when you and Sam crashed through the motel room door, battered and bloody and frizzling with unspent adrenaline, the air was stale and greenhouse-hot. Broken A/C. You’d opened up the window, but outside was no better than in.

               At first, it didn’t bother you. The only relief you wanted was the relief of excess energy burned off, and Sam was there to burn with you. Up against the wall, with greedy mouths and digging nails and bruising fingertips, you took the fear and frustration of the ugly job, the too-close-call, and slammed it, screamed it, out of one another until all that was left was the two of you - still alive, still together - and the restless, stuffy silence of the motel bed. Sleep came, finding you sweltering beneath the sweat-sour sheets, but it didn’t come easily.

               You turn over in the bed, and that’s how you’re sure that it wasn’t all a dream. The sheets are dry, but they still smell of the sweat, dirt, and blood you were too wiped out to shower away before you collapsed. But the air around you is cool, and sweet, and filled with the white noise _whoosh_ of steady rain. The heat wave broke in the night, and, miraculously, you feel like you really slept.

               You’re alone in the bed, but that’s of no concern. You’ve long stopped wondering how Sam manages on so little rest, just as he’s long since learned it’s wise to let you sleep in when circumstances allow. You get up, joints stiff and bones bruised, tender places made more tender still, and shuffle into the sparse, but clean, bathroom. In here, it’s warm and humid, but the steam smells soothingly of soap and shaving cream. He hasn’t been gone long.

               The heat of the shower is different from the heat of the night; it rinses the sour out of your skin and the sting out of your scrapes. After, clothed only in panties and one of Sam’s clean t-shirts, you climb up onto the other, unslept-in bed, turn on the little TV _(a flat screen, such decadence)_ and doze with half an eye on a talk show. It isn’t long at all until you perk up to the beep and click of the opening door.

               “Look at you,” Sam remarks, smiling, bearing a tray of paper coffee cups and a plastic grocery bag. His hair is dripping in his face, and the shoulders of his field jacket are speckled dark with raindrops. “I thought for sure you’d still be sleeping.”

               You sit up taller and stretch your arms, still stiff, but less insistently. “Good morning,” you say, taking the coffees out of his hands so he can shuck his wet jacket and take off his shoes.

               “It is,” he agrees, joining you on the bed and taking one of the cups. “I don’t think I’ve ever been happier to be caught in the rain. Last night was brutal.” He sets the grocery bag between you, unpacking yogurt cups, some speckled bananas, a pair of fresh-ish corn muffins. Truck stop nutrition.

               “You hear from Dean?” you ask around a mouthful.

               Sam nods through a long swallow of coffee. “He’s fine, he’s done, he’s about three hours out. I told him we'd just wait here. Figured you wouldn’t want to go exploring in a downpour.”

               “I’ve seen about all of this town that I care to anyway,” you say, crumpling your banana peel into your empty yogurt cup and tossing the lot into the wastebasket across from the bed. “Three hours of nothing sounds perfect right now.”

               He finishes his food and throws the rest of the trash away, then settles back on the bed next to you, one hand splayed out on the top of your bare thigh. “How are you?” he asks softly, turning away from the morning host banter that neither of you is truly watching and examining your face.  From Sam, it’s never an inane question.

               “All good,” you reply.

               “You sure?” he presses, his thumb brushing lightly over a deep purple bruise at the top of your thigh, one that didn’t come from the job, but from the other savage thing that came after. He looks down at the mark and back up at you.

               “I’m not fragile,” you answer with a smile. “I feel fine.”

               He nods, satisfied, but his hand continues to brush up and down your thigh, gentle and mindful.  On one sweep, his fingertips creep up under the hem of his t-shirt, almost, but not quite, where your panties meet your thigh.  You sigh, sink back into the headboard, bite the corner of your lip.  He pauses.

               “We could just sleep,” he says, upturned, like it’s a question.

               You shake your head.  “Feels nice,” you say, “don’t stop.”  He looks at you, one eyebrow raised a notch. You quickly lift the t-shirt up and over your head, baring your breasts, ignoring the ache in your shoulders.  “Don’t stop,” you repeat, and he grins.

               “All right,” he says, moving on the bed to kneel between your legs and leaning over to kiss you once, soft and sweet.  You scoot down to rest your head on the pillow, closing your eyes and sighing happily as Sam resumes the sweep of his fingers, both-handed, up and down your shins and thighs.  When he moves along to the sides of your waist, and the lines of your hipbones, you hum softly.  When his touch reaches the span of skin between your navel and the waist of your panties, you shudder, goosebumped, and he lingers there in cursive loops.

               “That tickle?” he murmurs, as your hips start to squirm.

               “You know it does,” you reply, opening your eyes to look at him and curling your fingers around fistfuls of bedsheet. He grins, and quickly ducks his head down to trail his tongue, warm and slippery, where his fingers just were. He smiles up at you, impish, when you gasp and arch your back.

               “I guess I do,” he says, before licking another languorous line from your navel to your collarbone, and bringing his hands up to cup and knead your breasts. He runs his thumbs back and forth across your nipples, hard and still sensitive from last night’s grazing teeth, and when you whimper, he kisses you again, long and deep and meaning business.

               He lets himself down onto one elbow, the fingers of his free hand raking their way back down your belly as the tip of his tongue traces the outline of your lips. He slips his hand into your panties, exhaling a quiet moan against your lips when his fingers find you wet.  He goes to press them inside you, just two, and you realize, with a sharp hiss of breath, just how sore last night has left you.

               He stops, immediately, and withdraws his hand. “Does that hurt?” he asks, and you don’t want to stop, but you don’t want to lie.

               “Little bit,” you admit. “Not bad.” You look up at him, wide-eyed and plaintive. “Keep going.”

               He chuckles, softly. “Fine,” he says, brushing the tip of his nose against the tip of yours, “but I’m going to take it easy.”

               “As long as you take it,” you say, grinning.

               He shakes his head slightly and kisses you again, just barely tugging at your lower lip with his teeth before he pulls away.  Then he moves down, nuzzling between your breasts on his way, until he’s backed right off the bed, kneeling.  You shift yourself down to meet him, and he reaches up to pull you closer, his hands on your hips, carefully placed to avoid the marks he’s already left.  When he brings his hands away again, he brings your panties with them.  “You sure you want to do this?” he asks, and this time it’s a tease, because, from where he’s kneeling, it’s plain to see ( _and feel_ , you observe, _and smell_ ) how sure you are.

               “Oh my god,” you protest, and he laughs, and an instant later he’s lapping up a mouthful of your slick, his tongue flat and velvet-soft and heavenly along the sore spots on your pussy.  Your head falls back and you moan, breathy, like a purr.  He does it again, slowly, and again, teasing,until you’re raising your hips, trying to get him to lick harder, faster, something. In answer, he lays his hands across your hipbones, not holding you still, exactly, but urging you there.

               “Relax,” he says, looking up at you from between your thighs, “let me take care of you.”

               You sigh, and burrow your head deeper into your pillow. Sam goes back to licking you, turning the attention of his tongue to your clit, circling it, flicking it, mouthing it between his lips. You hold your hips still, even though it all feels like _more_ , and content yourself with pinching and pulling at your nipples while he works.

               He keeps going, keeps licking at your clit, the pleasure of it sweet and constant and not quite enough. “Sam,” you breathe eventually, whimpery, impatient. “Please.”

               “Please what?” he says, lifting his head again, his face starting to flush, his lips shiny wet.

               “I want to come,” you answer, small-voiced and entreating.

               “Is _that_ what we're doing?” he says, grinning, laughing when you huff and pout. He turns his head, presses a few wet kisses into your thigh, and looks to you again, expression changed. “Like this?” he murmurs, and this time, when his tongue meets your clit, it’s with the speed and pressure he knows will set your nerves on fire.

               “Yes,” you say, your breathing picking up to panting, and the next words out of your mouth aren’t words at all, but moaning, needy sounds. Your muscles tense up, twitching and trembling, every fibre focused on the sweet, delicious tension mounting quickly at your core.  He lets up again, and you groan in complaint. “I’m so close,” you whine, pumping your hips in the air in protest.

               He smiles up at you. “I know,” he says, letting his eyes run over your body, at the flush blooming across your chest, and the rise and fall of your breasts as you pant. “It’s beautiful.” He moves one of his hands from your hip and slips it under your thigh, lifting your leg, pressing your knee toward your chest. “Hold this for me, would you?” he says, his voice thick and catching in his throat. You oblige, lacing your fingers together behind your knee, holding yourself open for him. 

               His mouth meets your pussy again, hot and wet and perfect, and it’s no time at all until you’re right back up at the edge, taut and quivering with pleasure about to overflow. At this angle, his tongue flicking ceaselessly against your clit feels like it’s reaching someplace deeper, more sating, and this time when you grind your hips up against him, he doesn’t try to stop you.  There’s no stopping now anyway, because he’s got you, gasping and stuttering and boiling over.  You think, absurdly, that the rush of blood in your ears sounds just like the rain outside, drowning out everything, and then, for a few flawless seconds, you think nothing at all.

               As your climax subsides, leaving you breathless and tingling and wrung out, Sam climbs back up onto the bed, and curls around you on his side. “I could watch you come all day,” he says, brushing a lock of damp hair off your forehead and pressing a kiss to your temple, and you think, given time and energy enough, he probably would.

               “Isn’t it your turn?” you ask, rolling onto your side to face him and starting on the buttons of his shirt.

               “It’s okay,” he says dismissively, “you don’t have to,” as if his pupils aren’t wide enough to blot out the haloes of gold in his eyes, and his cock isn’t straining so hard in his jeans that it twitches where it’s pressed against your thigh.

               “I want to,” you say, pushing him down onto his back, straddling him. “Relax.  Let me take care of you.”  He closes his eyes and smiles, his head sinking deep into the pillow.  Outside, the rain keeps falling.


End file.
